The Autumn Rose
by Belle of Books
Summary: Even though she knows time has passed, sometimes she doesn't feel like she is going anywhere. And she wonders if she has given too much of herself.


The Revolution, in the grander scheme of life, doesn't last very long. Marguerite knows this. She does. Really. But when she waited in the coldness of an English mansion and the serene stillness of the Dover cottage, the Revolution never seemed like it would end. The waits were interminable. Time would pass, marked only by the rising and setting of the sun. Autumn days would be spent in the gardens of Richmond, walking (pacing really) up and down the green, sweet-smelling paths.

She remembers the sickeningly sweet smell of dying roses. In particular, she remembers one day, one tiring day that never seemed to end. She prayed and prayed that the day would be over, that the night would come. But when it did, her fears took life, and the night was worse than the day. She remembers fleeing to the gardens that she paced in the daytime and walking again, up and down in her pale, thin nightdress. She remembers rubbing her arms back and forth, but mostly she remembers a single rose.

Its almost all of its leaves had fallen to the damp, darkened ground, and its remaining dark petals were glistening with night-time dew, reflecting the silent, silent moon above her. She remembers falling to her knees in front of the rose, not caring about the stains on her gown, not thinking about the displeasure of her maid. As she had sat in front of the rose, she had remembered that particular rose weeks earlier: full, red, and rich. But in that moment, the dying radiance of an autumn rose had brought her to her knees in tears. She had run her fingers over and over the rose as if her fingers could inspire it to life again. But it didn't. And she had sat on the ground in tears in front of the glistening, dying flower.

Time went past her slowly, but then sometimes, she didn't know where time had gone. Back then, she had thought the rose symbolized all her fears about Percy. The waits, then time disappearing only to find the most beautiful thing had disappeared… And she had cried. But now? Now she wonders if she is the rose. If she has been the rose all along, having spent months waiting, a petal dropping every day. She remembers how the rose had dropped its petals in a circle on the ground.

She thinks about her circle. From Richmond, to Dover, to Paris, to the country….every step she has left pieces of herself. She gave pieces of herself to Paris, to the orphans Percy tossed in her arms, to Percy when he needed humanity. But now she wonders if she has any petals left, if she has reached the place where she has no more to give. The Revolution did not last very long, but it took everything she had.

It took the last of her innocence, her trust, her love, her strength, and her endurance. In her strongest moments, she thinks she might have a little more. In her weakness, she does not know whether to blame the Revolution, Percy, or herself. The never-ending days, the never ending pain had aged her beyond her years. And she wonders, if in that season, it took everything she had.

Toward the end, she had taken a break from waiting at Dover, knowing that Percy would not be back soon. But really she returned to sit next to the rose bush at night, sleeping for a few hours, but waiting for the rose to come back. It never did. And in the dark of the night, with no rose glistening, with the air clean and no bitter-sweetness in the air, she wondered if she too was gone. She remembers those days now, months, years later. Percy is home now. At least, that is what he says; that is what his physical body implies. But sometimes, the house feels like nothing has changed. She feels like she hasn't changed. She is still exhausted, trying to be enough. Trying to find enough within herself to be adequate. Percy disappears from time to time and she knows that he is craving to be back in France. Craving for the adventure and for the sacrifice that had become his life's calling. And she feels like a failure.

She remembers the rose and the night she fell apart and wonders if perhaps she was right after all. Her life has taken everything from her. And it scares her. Because she is not completely whole and Percy does not notice. In the dark of the night, in the moments that she thought, once upon a time, life would be all that it could be, she cannot sleep.

She eases herself out of bed, checking over her shoulder to ensure that her uneasy movements have not awakened her sleeping husband. Her cold, tired heart flashes with a brief twinge of love and she leans over to run her knuckles over the sharp edge of his jaw and pulls the sheet higher on his hips. He rests, peacefully, and she wonders, once again, why she cannot rest as she sees him safe beside her. His arm is thrown hap-hazardously over his eyes, and he rests, still, with his chest rising and falling in a steady beat.

She pushes herself up and throws on her robe and slips down the stairs of the house and walks to the garden. She falls to the dewy ground in a cascade of airy, pale fabric and cannot even see the moon behind the dark clouds above her. She stares at the rose bush and does not even know why she is there. She wraps her arms around her midriff and rocks herself back and forth and sends prayer after prayer asking that she has more to give: more patience, more endurance, more love. Because her life is not over and she does not want to give up.

She curls up on the cold ground and knows that she should go inside before Percy awakens. But her limbs, like her heart, are heavy and she cannot bring herself to move them. She falls asleep but is awakened by the familiar tread of her husband. She pushes herself into a sitting position and looks up through darkly-rimmed eyes into Percy's worried blue eyes. He looks at her with concern and a fair amount of uncertainty. She sees that in his eyes more often now. He sits on the ground next to her and wraps one arm around one of his knees. She looks forward, but she can see him staring at her as if he were unsure about what to say. She doesn't help him, doesn't prompt him.

He takes a deep breath, and leans his head back to stare at the stars. She wonders if they remind him of France. Her bitterness assures her that they do.

He begins. "Marguerite," he says, his voice almost startling in the quiet of the greenery. "Marguerite," he begins again, his voice lower now. He stops, as if he does not know what to say. She wonders why his words fail him, why he has nothing reassuring to say. "Marguerite," he says once again, his voice so low she barely hears it. But she is glad, because he does not scold her, does not question her need to be alone and quiet when she should have been in bed asleep.

"I used to come out here all the time," she offers, knowing that he does not know what to say. "I used to sit. Right here." She stops talking, those two sentences the most that she can offer him.

He looks unsure, even then. "Sentimental tonight?" he asks, halfway the fop. But she doesn't have patience for his wry humor and shoots him a scalding look. He silences himself and looks at her again.

"No," she says.

He doesn't know what to do with a Marguerite who won't volunteer information, she thinks wryly. There is so much he does not know.

She shivers and he wraps a blanket around her that she did not see before. "Have you….do you….," she does not know how to say what she wants to say. "Are you happy? Do I make you happy?"

She appreciates that he does not act surprised. They have been married long enough and struggled together long enough that this topic must not surprise him. And somehow, her appreciation turns to irrational anger. "We've done this long enough, and yet I never know…"her voice trails off, afraid of saying the wrong thing. He doesn't respond and his lack of a response fuels her again. "We've done this enough and I never know if I have enough to give. If there is anything left to give." She stops.

He doesn't respond. His face, in the privacy of the night, is open. He is sad, that much is clear. He draws in his breath like he is about to start talking, but he never says a word. Eventually enough time passes that he breaks the stalemate, "it has never been you that is the problem."

Yet even his words, meant to be reassuring, only make her angrier. "But I should fix it. I should be enough," she says to him in a low, tense voice.

"You can't solve all the problems," he says. "You can help, but you can't solve them."

And her heart breaks a little more. She turns toward the bush and starts running her fingers along the branches.

"Don't prick your finger," she hears Percy say. And in her anger and hurt, she wants nothing more than to stop at a thorn and press her finger into it. She thinks about the flash of pain and the running of blood and wonders if it would make her feel alive, the pain of her body soothing her soul.

"Margot," she hears and realizes that her finger has been waiting on the branch, waiting for her to make up her mind.

"Margot. It was never about you," he stops as she tenses and backtracks his words. "It was never about hurting you. There was something else to do. Something beyond this and us and…" His words trail off, like always, when he feels something so much greater than he can express. She sighs, because she knows. And she wonders how something, so short in time, could have lasted so long.

"Sometimes," her voice wavers, "I wonder if I have given all I can give." She carefully, slowly, against all of her instincts, she says what she has been thinking.

Thankfully, he seems to know that there is nothing he can say, nothing he can promise. He cannot promise to be there, to support her, because neither of them know if he can stay still, quiet, _home_ long enough. And his silence is answer enough. She will find enough because when he _is_ not… The answer is not the comfort or assurance that she wants.

She gasps at the still unfamiliar feeling of the flutters in her stomach, her hand immediately going to her stomach. Percy looks at her in concern, so she offers him a small smile in consolation. He looks like he wants to touch her but isn't sure if she wants to be alone. He's right. She'd rather be alone. (And she hates that being with him right now is requiring more strength than being alone). But she gives him a nod and lets him touch her and rest his forehead against hers.

In the quiet of the night, in the darkness of the garden, she wonders if this is her life. If the results of sacrifice and turmoil are not happiness but just survival and life. And she wonders if maybe, all she has left is just enough. Just enough to love Percy completely for one more day, just enough to defend and protect her baby for as long as he needs her. She wonders why, when the Revolution is over, why she feels like no time has gone by.

"Marguerite, dear heart," Percy says. "Will you go inside...Please?" he adds.

She realizes that she is cold and nods. He stands and leans down to wrap his steady hands around her arms and lifts her from the ground. She tries to walk, but stumbles, and before she can take another breath, Percy has taken her into his arms. She leans her head against his chest and for the first time that night, finds herself grateful that Percy is there. He walks them slowly into the house, and she wonders if it is possible that he holds her more gently than ever before.

She relaxes into his chest and listens to the steady, _live_ beating of his heart. When they reach their room, he undresses her and gently, oh so gently, sets her on their bed. She can barely keep her eyes open but she can feel him place blankets on top of her and tuck her into bed. She can feel his hand run over her stomach and push her hair back from her eyes. She feels his kiss on her hair, and as she falls into the blissful emptiness of sleep she hears his whispered, almost breathed, reverent, sad, uncertain words of "I love you." And she lets herself be drawn in to the warm, steadiness of Percy.

Her questions have not been really answered; she will ask them for years, when her children grow, when Percy disappears, when she is lost in the memories, but for now, she sleeps.

_I've wanted to write a_ Scarlet Pimpernel _story for quite some time. I've loved the book (all of the books, really) for ages. As is the case with all of my stories, I just didn't have the inspiration until I had way too much to do. This case, was studying for my college finals...including a history class that partially covered the French Revolution. That set me up for disaster ;). Anyway, I hope that _somebody _enjoys this as much as I did rereading it a week later (is an author allowed to say that?). I don't like asking for reviews, but I know I'm posting this to a category that does not get very many visitors, so anything anyone would be willing to say would be lovely. And about the strange gloominess, I don't think that Percy and Marguerite, as wonderful as they are and as much I as I would love them to do so, could ever have a "normal" relationship. _

_Thanks for reading. I hope you all have a lovely day. _


End file.
